"I beg pardon, sir?" said Alice.
"Beer!" roared Mr. Dixon.
Everybody began to feel uncomfortable except Bindle, who was watching the little comedy with keen enjoyment.
"We – we – " began Mr. Hearty – "we don't drink beer, Mr. Dixon."
"Don't drink beer?" cried Mr. Dixon in the tone of a man who has just heard that another doesn't wear socks. "Don't drink beer?"
Mr. Hearty shook his head miserably, as if fully conscious of his shortcomings.
"Extraordinary!" said Mr. Dixon, "most extraordinary!"
"Well, I'll have a whisky-and-soda," he conceded magnanimously.
Mr. Hearty rolled his eyes and cast a languishing glance in the direction of Mrs. Bindle.
"We are temperance," said Mr. Hearty.
"What!" roared Mr. Dixon incredulously. "Temperance! temperance at a wedding!"
"Always," said Mr. Hearty.
"Hmmmm!" snorted Mr. Dixon. He glared down the length of the table as if the guests comprised a new species.
Alice repeated her question about the lemonade and lime-juice.
"I should be sick if I drank it," said Mr. Dixon crossly. "I'll have a cup of tea."
"'E's like me, mum," said Bindle to Mrs. Dixon who was greatly distressed at the occurrence, "'e likes 'is glass of beer and ain't none the worse for it."
Mrs. Dixon smiled understandingly.
The meal continued, gloomily silent, or with whispered conversations, as if the guests were afraid of hearing their own voices.
Bindle turned to Mrs. Hearty. "Look 'ere, Martha!" he cried. "We ain't a very cheer-o crowd, are we? Ain't you got none of them naughty stories o' yours to tell jest to make us laugh."
Mrs. Hearty was in the act of conveying a piece of chicken to her mouth. The chicken and fork dropped back to the plate with a jangle, and she leaned back in her chair, heaving and wheezing with laughter.
"Look 'ere, sir!" said Bindle, addressing Mr. Sopley, who temporarily withdrew his eyes from the ceiling. "I 'ad a little argument with a cove the other day, as to where this 'ere was to be found. I said it's from the Bible, 'e says it's from The Pink 'Un."
Bindle looked round to assure himself that he had attracted the attention of the whole table.
"Now this is it. 'The Lord said unto Moses come forth, and 'e come fifth an' lorst the cup.'"
Mrs. Dixon smiled, Millie and Charlie Dixon laughed; but Mr. Dixon threw himself back in his chair and roared. Mr. Hearty looked apprehensively at Mr. Sopley, who regarded Bindle with uncomprehending eyes.
"You've lost your money, Mr. Bindle, you've lost your money; it's The Pink 'Un, I'll bet my life on it," choked Mr. Dixon. "Best thing I've heard for years, 'pon my soul it is!" he cried.
"Mr. Bindle, I'm afraid you are a very naughty man," said Mrs. Dixon gently.
"Me, mum?" enquired Bindle with assumed innocence. "Me naughty? That's jest where you're wrong, mum. When I die, it ain't the things I done wot I shall be sorry for; but the things wot I ain't done, and as for 'Earty, 'e'll be as sorry for 'imself as Ginger was when 'e got a little dose o' twins."
"Bindle, remember there are ladies present!" cried the outraged Mrs. Bindle from the other side of the table.
"It's all right, Mrs. B.," said Bindle reassuringly. "These was gentlemen twins."
The meal progressed solemn and joyless. Few remarks were made, but much food and drink was consumed. Bindle made a point of cutting both the pineapples that adorned the table, delighting in the anguish he saw on Mr. Hearty's face.
"If they only 'ad a drink," groaned Bindle, "it would sort o' wake 'em up; but wot can you do on lemonade and glass-ginger. Can't even 'ave stone-ginger, because they're sort of afraid it might make 'em tight."
When everyone had eaten to repletion, Mr. Hearty cast a glance round and then, with the butt-end of a knife, rapped loudly on the table. There was a sudden hush. Mr. Hearty looked intently at Mr. Sopley, who was far away engaged in a contemplation of heaven, via the ceiling. Bindle began to clap, which brought Mr. Sopley back to earth.
Seeing what was required of him, he rose with ponderous solemnity and, in his best "grief-and-woe" manner, proceeded to propose the health of the bride in a sepulchral voice, reminiscent of a damp Church of England service in the country.
"Dear friends." He raised a pair of anguished eyes to the green and yellow paper festoons that trailed from the electrolier above the dining-table to various picture nails in the walls. He paused, his lips moving slowly and impressively, then aloud he continued:
"Dear friends, of all the ceremonies that attend our brief stay in this vale of tears, marriage is infinitely the most awful – ("'Ear, 'ear!" from Bindle, and murmurs of "Hush!"). It is a contract entered into – er – er – in the sight of heaven; but with – er – er – the Almighty's blessing it may be a linking of hands of two of – er – God's creatures as they pass down the – er – er – valley of the shadow of death to eternal and lasting salvation." Mr. Sopley paused.
"'Ere, I say, sir," broke in Bindle. "Cheer up, this ain't a funeral."
There were murmurs of "Husssssssssh!" Mrs. Hearty began to cry quietly. Mr. Hearty appeared portentously solemn, Mrs. Bindle looked almost cheerful.
"We see two young people," resumed Mr. Sopley, having apparently renewed his store of ideas from a further contemplation of the ceiling, "on the threshold of life, with all its disappointments and temptations, all its sin and misery, all its fears and misgivings. We know that – we know – we have evidence of – " Mr. Sopley lost the thread of his discourse, and once more returned to his contemplation of Mr. Hearty's ceiling. Bindle beat his fist on the table; but was silenced by a "Husssssssh" from several of the guests.
"Marriages," continued Mr. Sopley, "marriages are made in heaven – "
"I knew you was goin' to say that, sir," broke in Bindle cheerfully. "'Ere, stop it!" he yelled, stooping down to rub his shin. "Who's a-kickin' me under the table?" he fixed a suspicious eye upon a winter-worn spinster in a vieux rose satin blouse sitting opposite.
"Marriage is a thing of terrible solemnity," resumed Mr. Sopley, "not to be entered upon lightly, or with earthly thoughts. It is symbolical of many things, sometimes terrible things – ("'Ere, 'ere!" interposed Bindle) – but throughout all its vicissitudes, in spite of all earthly woes, desolation, and despair, it should be remembered that there is One above to Whom all prayers should be directed, and in Whom all hope should be reposed.
"In the course of the long life that the Lord has granted me, I have joined together in holy wedlock many young couples – ("Shame!" from Bindle, and a laugh from Mr. Dixon), – and I hope our young friends here will find in it that meed of happiness which we all wish them."
In spite of the entire lack of conviction with which Mr. Sopley wished the bridal pair happiness, he resumed his seat amidst murmurs of approval. His words were too solemn to be followed by applause from anyone save Bindle, who tapped the table loudly with the butt-end of his knife. Everyone looked towards Charlie Dixon, who in turn looked appealingly at Bindle.
Interpreting the glance to mean that Bindle contemplated replying, Mrs. Bindle kicked him beneath the table.
"'Ere, who's kicking me on the shins again?" he cried as he rose. Mrs. Bindle frowned at him. "Oh, it's you, is it?" he remarked. "Now, Charlie, you see what's goin' to 'appen to you now you're married. Been kickin' my shins all the mornin', she 'as, me with 'various' veins in my legs too."
Bindle looked at Millie; it was obvious that she was on the point of tears. Charlie Dixon was gazing down at her solicitously. Mr. Dixon was clearly annoyed. At the conclusion of Mr. Sopley's address he had cleared his throat impressively, as if prepared to enter the lists. Mrs. Dixon gazed anxiously at her son. Mr. Hearty looked at Mrs. Bindle. Mrs. Bindle's eyes were fixed on Bindle. Bindle rose deliberately.
"If ever I wants to get married again," began Bindle, looking at Mr. Sopley, "I'll come to you, sir, to tie me up. It'll sort o' prepare me for the worst; but I got to wait till Mrs. B. 'ops it with the lodger; not 'ole Guppy," he added, "'e's gone."
Mr. Dixon laughed loudly; into Mrs. Bindle's cheeks there stole a flush of anger.
"Well!" continued Bindle, "I promised Charlie that 'e shouldn't 'ave no speeches to make, an' so I'm on my 'ind legs a-givin' thanks for all them cheerful things wot we jest 'eard about. I ain't altogether a believer in 'ow to be 'appy though married; but this 'ere gentleman – (Bindle indicated Mr. Sopley by a jerk of his thumb) – well, 'e can give me points. No one didn't ought to 'ave such ideas wot ain't done time for bigamy. I can see now why there ain't no givin' an' takin' in marriage up there;" and Bindle raised his eyes to the ceiling. "I got a new respect for 'eaven, I 'ave.
"I don't rightly understand wot 'e means by 'a vale o' tears,' or 'walkin' 'and in 'and along the valley o' the shadow.' P'raps they're places 'e's been to abroad. I seen a good deal o' wanderin' 'and in 'and along the river between Putney an' 'Ammersmith, I'm a special, you know. I 'ad to ask the sergeant to change my dooty. Used to make me 'ot all over, it did.
"There's one thing where you're wrong, sir." Bindle turned to Mr. Sopley, who reluctantly brought his eyes down from the ceiling to gaze vacantly at Bindle. "You said this 'ere marriage was made in 'eaven. Well, it wasn't; it was made in Fulham."
Mrs. Dixon smiled. Mr. Dixon guffawed. Mr. Hearty looked anxiously from Mrs. Bindle to Mr. Sopley.
"I made it myself, so I ought to know," proceeded Bindle. "I seen a good deal o' them two kids." He looked affectionately at Millie. "An' if they ain't goin' to be 'appy in Fulham instead o' wanderin' about vales and valleys a-snivellin', you got one up against Joe Bindle.
"I remember once 'earin' a parson say that when we died and went to the sort of Ole Bailey in the sky, we should be asked if we'd ever done anybody a good turn. If we 'ad, then we'd got a sportin' chance. When I'm dead I can see myself a-knockin' at them golden gates of 'eaven, sort o' registered letter knock wot means an answer's wanted. When they ask me if I ever done anyone a good turn, I shall say I got Millikins an' Charlie Dixon tied up.
"'Right-o, ole sport!' they'll say, ''op in.'
"An' I shall nip in quick before they can bang the gates to, like they do on the tube. Then I shall see ole 'Earty, all wings an' whiskers, a-playin' rag-time on an 'arp."
Again Mr. Dixon's hearty laugh rang out. "Splendid!" he cried. "Splendid!"
"I seen a good deal o' marriage one way an' another. Me an' Mrs. B. 'ave been tied up a matter o' nineteen years, an' look at 'er. Don't she look 'appy?"
Everybody turned to regard Mrs. Bindle.
"Then," continued Bindle, "there's 'Earty. Look at 'im. One of the jolliest coves I know."
Mechanically all eyes were directed towards Mr. Hearty.
"It all depends 'ow you goes about marriage. There's one thing you got to remember before you gets married: bottles is returnable, likewise new-laid eggs wot ain't new laid; but you can't return your missus, not even if you pays the carriage. It's a lifer, is marriage.
"I ain't goin' to make a long speech, because the pubs close at 'alf-past two, an' you'll all want to wash the taste o' this 'ere lemonade out o' your mouths."
Bindle paused and looked at the now happy faces of Millie and Charlie Dixon. For a moment he gazed at them, then with suddenness he resumed his seat, conscious that his voice had failed him and that he was blinking and swallowing with unnecessary vigour. The silence was broken only by the loud thumping on the table of Mr. Dixon.
"Bravo!" he cried. "Bravo! one of the best speeches I've ever heard. Excellent! Splendid!"
Everybody looked at everybody else, as if wondering what would happen next, and obviously deploring Mr. Dixon's misguided enthusiasm.
Alice solved the problem by entering and whispering to Millie that the taxi was at the door. This was a signal for a general movement, a pushing back of chairs and shuffling of feet as the guests rose.
Charlie Dixon walked across to Bindle.
"Get us off quickly, Uncle Joe, will you," he whispered. "Millie doesn't think she can stand much more."
"Right-o, Charlie!" replied Bindle. "Leave it to me."
"Now then, 'urry up, 'urry up!" he called out. "You'll lose that train, come along. Once aboard the motor and the gal is mine! Now, Charlie, where's your cap? I'll see about the luggage."
Almost before anyone knew what was happening, they were gazing at the tail-end of a taxi-cab being driven rapidly eastward. When it had disappeared over the bridge, Bindle turned away and found himself blinking into the moist eyes of Mrs. Dixon. He coughed violently, then, as she smiled through her tears, he remarked:
"Ain't I an ole fool, mum?" he said.
"Mr. Bindle," she said in a voice that was none too well under control, "I think you have been their fairy-godmother."
"Well I am a bit of an ole woman at times," remarked Bindle, swallowing elaborately. "Now I must run after my little bit of 'eaven, or else she'll be off with Ole Woe-and-Whiskers. It's wonderful 'ow misery seems to attract some women."
He took two steps towards the door, then turning to Mrs. Dixon said:
"Don't you worry, mum, 'e'll come back all right. Gawd ain't a-goin' to spoil the 'appiness of them two young kids."
Mrs. Dixon's tears were now raining fast down her cheeks.
"Mr. Bindle," she said, "you must be a very good man."
Bindle stared at her for a moment in astonishment, and then turned and walked through the Heartys' private door.
"Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered. "Fancy 'er a-sayin' that. I wonder wot ole 'Earty 'ud think. Well, I'm blowed! 'Ere, come along, sir!" he cried to Mr. Dixon. "It's a quarter past two, we jest got a quarter of an hour;" and the two men passed down the High Street in the direction of Putney Bridge.